


Real

by vesper_house



Series: Morning Comes [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_house/pseuds/vesper_house
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little snippet to wrap up the previous part on a more hopeful note.
> 
> Translation to Vietnamese available [here](https://doublenonsense.wordpress.com/2016/07/15/real/).

Against all expectations, Clark feels comfortable around Bruce. The man is not a show-off nor a scoffer: Bruce – in his most private moments – is a very quiet man. So quiet that he even wakes up from his nightmares without making a sound.

The sudden jolt of the body lying next to him snatches Clark from sleep. Drowsy, he sees Bruce breathing heavily, his neck damp with cold sweat and eyes wide open. Clark can hear his heartbeat racing madly, like the man is not in surrounded by the safety of his home but running away from danger. “Bruce,” Clark whispers, voice a little croaky from sleep. “It’s okay.” He reaches for him to offer some comfort, but Bruce is already on his feet. He nearly runs to the kitchen with a bottle of sleeping pills. Clark, being a quiet man himself, never asks about those.

January brought heavy snow to Gotham: the lake by Bruce’s house is frozen, the forest completely covered in white fluff. Outside everything is misty and grey: the weak light of incoming sunrise adds a sense of eeriness to the atmosphere, like the reality got slightly altered sometime during the night. It makes Clark feel like he is sleepwalking when he joins Bruce in the kitchen. He is drinking water straight from the tap. The dreadful bottle of pills lies on the counter.

Clark always tried to avoid using clichéd phrases in his writing, one of them being “to look like you saw a ghost”. As Bruce turns off the tap and slowly acknowledges his presence, Clark thinks that perhaps he should reevaluate his principles: Bruce is definitely a person who sees ghosts. He is pale, somehow much older than the metric says, his autumn eyes not entirely _there._

Clark carefully gets closer, like he is about to approach a skittish animal. It would be so easy to brush the whole thing off with a smile, a hug, some kind of lighthearted reassurance. Yet he knows it will not work on Bruce. Without the obvious solution, Clark feels unsure about what he should do next. A part of him hopes that Bruce will say something, but of course that does not happen, so Clark just sort of stands beside him. The nasty scar on Bruce’s chest seems more prominent than usual – another thing Clark does not ask.

The silence becomes unbearable. Clark needs to do _something._ He leans his forehead on the man’s shoulder. “Come back to bed?” He pleads. To his relief, Bruce nods.

The bedding is still warm from their body heat. Clark does even get a chance to slip under the covers – Bruce pins him down bodily, crushing his mouth with a violent kiss. There is nothing soft in his moves: it is all about teeth and nails and regaining control. Clark hesitates. He could get hard and get off without any problem, but it just does not feel right. Instead of responding to Bruce’s frantic need, he puts a hand on his chest and pushes him away gently. Even though they look into each other’s eyes, they are oceans apart. Bruce sighs, unhappy, and turns his back to Clark. For a moment time stands still. Clark follows his intuition and spoons behind Bruce. The man goes stiff at first, but slowly relaxes in the embrace. His heartbeat is normal again; Clark figures that the pills started working.

“Do you remember Krypton?” Bruce asks unexpectedly.

“No,” Clark whispers. He can feel a small stab between his ribs. “I was a newborn when my parents… sent me here. Sometimes I… I feel like I have some memories but can’t access them. That’s impossible, I know.” He sighs. “Do you know how people often say that children can hear everything in mother’s womb and then remember it all after birth? I feel like that could be my case. Or I’m just, you know… imagining things to make myself feel better.”

“I’ve done that, too,” Bruce whispers.

“What?”

“Created false memories.” He sighs like he is confessing a mortal sin. “To this day I’m not sure about half of the stuff I remember from my childhood. I used to ask Alfred for confirmation, but I don’t think he’s honest with me when it comes to this.”

“I’m sorry.”  

“Yeah. Me too.”

The birds are chirping in the cold, grey morning. It would come as no surprise if they have turned out to be the only people on Earth.

“Is Kal-El your real name?” Bruce says very quietly as he is drifting off to sleep.  

“First name Kal, last name El.” _The last of my kind,_ he thinks. “Just like first name Clark, last name Kent. They both are as real as it gets.”

“Would you like me to call you Kal?”

Clark is sure that he radiates with a sudden, overwhelming wave of pure affection. He wishes he could give Bruce everything that is soft and warm and gentle, to unroll in front of him like a carpet and make his life easier.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Bruce has one foot on the other side of consciousness. “Try to get some sleep, Kal.”

“Alright. Sleep well, Bruce.”

Early sunlight pierces through the fog. The moment feels like it is already lost in time.


End file.
